


Ain't Born Typical (We Are a Fever)

by cymbalism



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Bondage, Five Plus One, M/M, Smut, Superpower Sex, Telepathic Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:19:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymbalism/pseuds/cymbalism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Charles uses his mutant power to make Erik come and one time Erik turns the tables.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't Born Typical (We Are a Fever)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompts _1\. First time. 2. Sexual tension. 3. Road trip. 4. Erik's hands. A little angst with a happy ending. Something fun and playful, maybe._ Apparently that translated into kinky mutant sex featuring a little telepathy-enhanced autoerotica. I hope that's acceptable. Title is from "U. R. A. Fever" by The Kills.

****

— — 1 — —

  
The first time Charles makes Erik come using his mutant power it's involuntary.

It happens while they're on the search for fellow mutants. They're in a high-rise hotel somewhere between D.C. and L.A. and Erik is in Charles, his knees braced against the edge of the luxury sized bed with Charles's legs slung around his waist.

It's also the first time they've done this, but it's been so long in the making—days, but those were days that could have been years—and they're both lacking control. They’ll have to pay to replace the door lock, for instance, because Erik ripped it out entirely in his impatience finish what they'd started over highballs and heated looks in the hotel bar. Charles had chuckled, lips tucked against Erik's jaw, and written it off as a sacrifice for the good of the cause. Erik hadn't said anything; he'd just jockeyed Charles backward through the door and begun stripping them both.

Charles has already come once. Intent on finally making posh and perfect Charles fall apart, Erik had pinned him to the bed and brought him off with his hand, fingers circled around Charles's uncircumcised cock. But then Charles had kissed him deep and dirty and whispered, "Now fuck me," and saying no was not—had never been—an option.

Now Erik has Charles writhing on the bed below him, face flushed. He thrusts up and Charles gasps, "Erik, there. There, oh—" and swivels his hips to make it happen again, almost causing Erik to lose his grip. He redoubles his hold on Charles's ass and works to thrust with a lift, dragging over Charles's prostate again and again. Charles starts to babble, chanting Erik's name, his hands roaming, panicky, needy. "Erik. Erik. Good God, yes, Erik."

Erik's hair falls in his eyes as he concentrates on the firm grasp of Charles's body, the hot slide of them together. Hips pumping and arms straining, he's driving Charles beyond restraint. He urges Erik on with hungry little moans and exclamations of how _spectacular_ that feels and Erik knows he's not alone in his mind anymore, that Charles has slipped in, not on purpose but because he can't not.

And then Charles wishes, wishes aloud, that he could make Erik feel like this—feel taken, owned, possessed—and immediately Erik's mind floods with images of Charles fucking him, Charles above him and biting his lip, Charles thrusting his hips and making Erik shout.

Erik shuts his eyes, but it doesn't go away. The idea stuns him, enrages him, entrances him. _Mine,_ Charles thinks, and the image dances behind Erik's eyelids. Charles clenches tight around him, claiming him body and mind, and Erik comes with a shout, head thrown back and one hand tangled in Charles's fingers.

  
****

— — 2 — —

  
The second time it's deliberate.

Charles was up early for another meeting with the CIA men. Erik's presence was not required—evidently it was the type of meeting that German foreign nationals with undocumented pasts and violent tendencies aren't invited to—so he is still in his robe, in bed. One minute he's re-reading the Americans' file on Shaw, the next he feels a tingle at the back of his skull and the image of his own naked silhouette framed in the city light of that high-rise hotel's window floats into his cerebral cortex.

 _Charles,_ he thinks pointedly.

 _You can hardly blame me,_ Charles responds. _I'm terribly bored and no one here can read_ my _mind, after all. I thought you might like to know I was thinking of you. Naked._

Erik can actually hear the impish smile. He closes Shaw's file and tosses it aside. _Surely your top-secret meeting can't be so dull._

 _Forget them,_ Charles sends, dismissive hand motion implied. _Tell me what you're wearing. Or_ not _wearing._ Erik rolls his eyes, but an offhand thought filters through and it's just enough. _Mmm, this is better than expected. You're very sexy in your robe._

Erik goes for a mental scowl, but Charles continues, undaunted.

 _It's true! You don't know what it does to me._ If Erik didn't before he does now—a low ripple of lust laps at Erik's mind, an image of Erik on his back, robe open as Charles mouths his way down his chest, toward Erick's erection. _You may call yourself Frankenstein's monster, but you are no hideous creature, Erik. Just thinking about you makes my trousers tent._

That makes Erik laugh. He wags his head. "That's charming Charles, truly," he says aloud to the room as he moves to get up, "However, I am going to shower now and—"

And nothing. A tidal wave of lust crashes over Erik, pushing him back to the pillows.

It's a swirling mass of sexual fantasy narrated by Charles's dark silk voice. A voice that may as well be wrapped around Erik's cock, because as Charles whispers a litany of pleasurable things, Erik finds himself getting hard. _Mm, yes, I would have you in the shower. I would lick every centimeter of your body, to have your taste on my tongue. I could have you all day and never tire._ Images and impressions tumble past Erik's closed eyes—Charles, on his knees, wet hair plastered down, water dripping from his plump red bottom lip, Charles flicking his tongue across the head of Erik's cock, soft slick heat, and _yes. Yes._

"No." Erik struggles to sit up, digs his fingers into the bedclothes, and tries very hard not to shift his hips to feel the heavy fabric of his robe stroke over his erection. "Charles, no. I can't—"

_I never said you couldn't._

Erik tears open his robe and takes himself in hand with a deep and satisfied groan. _Charles._ He slides lower on the bed as reflex, head tilting back. His hand is dry but it's no matter. He pulls again and again, reveling in the pressure, the burn.

"God, Charles," he bites out, though he knows it isn't Charles anymore. These sensations are from Erik alone; this is a thing he's doing to himself. Nevertheless, a landslide of bliss rushes through, over, inside him and then he's coming. Hot fluid pours over his belly, slips down to his thigh, soils his dark blue robe. "Charles—"

He lies still when he's spent, too sated to be upset that he was just goaded into handling himself. _You did that on purpose,_ he chides.

 _That was gorgeous, Erik._ Charles replies, unapologetic. Erik looks down to see his hand covered in come, his legs wide, and body flushed and Charles hums in pleasure at the sight through Erik's eyes. _So gorgeous._

Erik hrumphs, more amused than angry. _Yes, well, your show is over,_ he thinks wryly, and does his best to push Charles out of his head as he goes to shower.

  
****

— — 3 — —

  
The third time is desperate.

Erik lies on the hotel bed, trembling embarrassingly close to orgasm. Charles is between Erik's thighs and still wearing his unbuttoned Oxford, if little else—sparing a moment to remove clothing entirely had been out of the question.

They are back on the road one last time, just the two of them in upmarket, anonymous hotels paid for by Charles's very shiny American dime. After Charles's little game last week, Erik enforced a No Sex on Government Property rule. Charles had protested, but Erik pointed to the fact that there are now children running through the place, barging through doors without knocking, and the matter was decided in his favor.

Erik gathers Charles to him, hands beneath the shirt, on his bare ass, and pushes upward against Charles's equally impatient erection.

He admits now it was a terrible idea.

"I wasn't aware this was possible, you know," Charles says, lips pressed to Erik's neck, babbling as he always does when he's so aroused he can no longer contain the excess energy and endorphins. "To crave someone. A person."

He shifts back onto his haunches and shoves his fascinated fingers into the scruff at the base of Erik's cock. Erik's eyes squeeze shut as his every atom begs for more.

"To think you'll go mad if you don't get to have them, touch them, _something_."

Charles slicks an unexpected and ample amount of clear gel onto Erik's dick at that last and Erik's eyes fly open, heels jamming into the mattress. He feels the same but is beyond articulating the point.

"God, I've wanted you," Charles pants, stroking up Erik's shaft. Erik groans his agreement with his lip tight between his teeth.

Shifting so his knees bracket Erik's legs, Charles arches back, bracing himself. Erik lets go his lip and gasps at the sight of Charles balanced above him—broad chest, slim hips, full cock. But when Charles moves to scoot forward, Erik digs fingers into Charles's thighs to stop him.

"No, you need— Come here, let me . . ." He beckons with limp fingers, but Charles just gives Erik a pitying smile.

He leans forward and kisses Erik thoroughly. "My friend, I am far too impatient for that right now." He swirls one slick finger around Erik's all-too eager cock and Erik bucks involuntarily. Charles makes a chuckling little humming sound and kisses him again. "And so are you."

Charles inches over him carefully until he's straddling Erik's abdomen. _Let me show you a shortcut. Call it the power of mind over muscle._

With that, Charles holds Erik's cock steady and slides himself onto it, his body already perfectly open, perfectly ready, and perfectly tight. He's hot and deep and breathes out Erik's name as he begins to move. The sweet onslaught of relief snaps Erik's last tether of restraint as he surrenders to Charles.

  
****

— — 4 — —

  
It's possible the fourth time doesn't count.

Over dinner one evening, Angel asks Charles a question in Spanish and Charles answers, fluently and flawlessly.

Erik freezes.

Next to him, Raven smiles and leans closer. "He knows more than that," she brags, clearly wanting Erik to admire her surrogate brother so that he might admire her by association. (She doesn't know about them—none of them know, though Angel might suspect.)

As Charles neatly rolls his R's and conjugates foreign verbs with his nimble tongue, Raven informs Erik that Charles knows all the languages Erik speaks and a few others besides.

Of course he does. Of course this is a thing that he should have expected, Charles having been the pampered young scholar with tutors and books, where Erik had Shaw's punishing education and years alone and on the run in any nation other than his own. And of course Charles is not the first person with a facility for languages Erik has encountered.

It's how Charles came by this knowledge that arouses Erik.

He didn't acquire it through hours of rigorous study—he stole it.

"It's like automatic translation," Raven explains, taking a bite of her chicken. "Everyone's brain works the same, and Charles can tap into anyone's brain. He communicates with them in the language they think in, and his brain is just so abnormally big that he retains it all. We had a maid when we were kids," she circles a finger in the air to indicate the size of the house, as though it's the mansion's fault servants were required, as though it made them a necessity rather than luxury. "Maribel. She was from Mexico. He's had a lot of practice."

Erik's pulse pounds. This Charles—this Charles who steals, who robs without repentance, who exists in moral grays—this is a Charles more devious than anyone imagines. And it's a Charles Erik demands to experience.

He wipes his mouth with his cloth napkin and clears his throat politely. Charles looks over at him, arching an eyebrow, but Erik shakes his head minutely to keep him out of his head.

Erik excuses them both from dinner with the children. He leads a rather confused but very curious Charles upstairs, to the room furthest from the dining hall, where he intends to lick his way into that pretty multilingual mouth and fuck Charles so well that he forgets every language he's ever pried from someone's mind.

  
****

— — 5 — —

  
The fifth time is a dream.

Or at least Erik believes it is, at first.

The images begin as hazy, half-remembered things—Charles's distinctly jealous raised eyebrow over Raven's none-too-subtle flirtations with Erik, the possessive kiss he stole later, what it made Erik want from him—but, slowly, details take shape. Details that are far too specific, too tactile, to be generated by his own subconscious mind. Erik teeters on the edge of consciousness, in the half light between awareness and oblivion, unwilling to fall either way. It's good here—Charles's breath is warm, his lips are soft, and Erik's already leaking for him.

Still, part of him knows it's not real, even if it's not really a dream, either.

They don't share rooms in the mansion. They might spend some time together in one bed or the other, when they can, but they keep separate quarters, and this night Erik is certain he went to sleep alone. He lies half prone on the bed and knows there is nothing but the fine cotton of the sheets beneath him, and yet he can feel Charles's hot mouth around him. Open, easy, willing.

Erik fucks into the feeling, smooth and slow. He feels Charles's tongue cup around his cock, hears Charles moan.

Dream or not, Erik feels his cock being sucked. He's being coaxed toward climax, his blood suddenly burning for it.

He digs his fingers into the sheets but in his mind he has handfuls of Charles's thick hair. The feeling of suction intensifies and Erik hears little caught sighs of pleasure before he recognizes they’re from his own throat. He presses his forehead into the pillow, mouth open but eyes screwed shut to keep the reality of the empty bed at bay.

"Charles—" he pants, hips twisting, rutting. His skin feels on fire.

Bright white hits the backs of his eyelids and he's coming. He spills long, hot ribbons and can feel Charles swallow it down. It's good—better than good. So good he feels ferocious. He claws at the bed and bares his teeth. He wants to haul Charles up, to devour him.

But Charles is not there.

He buries his face into one of the pillows to muffle his voice.

For minutes afterward he doesn't move, just breathes in and out to let his heart settle. When he eventually shifts his weight to get up he discovers the cooling mess smeared beneath him on those very fine cotton sheets. He grimaces. Of course it's there if Charles wasn't.

"Very funny," he mutters as he scoots off the side of the bed.

  
****

— — +1 — —

  
What happens next isn't precisely what Erik set out to do.

He finds Charles up working late in his study, probably drawing up plans for his precious school. Charles doesn't look up as Erik crosses the expanse of the room, though Erik knows very well that Charles knows he's here.

"You've been toying with me," he accuses, taking a seat on the corner of the massive desk and settling his arms across his chest.

"I've been training," Charles corrects, glancing up then back to his work. Charles has his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow and his collar open under one of his vests, every inch the diligent professor. The thought of him sitting here calmly working as he projects salacious thoughts of himself performing exquisitely indecent acts into Erik's mind is intensely arousing, even if Erik doesn't want it to be.

"Training," Erik repeats. The question is implied in his raised eyebrow.

"Yes. Training like everyone else. I'm not exempting myself, you know," Charles says, shuffling some papers on the desktop. "In this case, I was improving my long-distance control." Erik catches the smirk that escapes him.

"So I'm your lab rat?" he teases, but the taunt hides a knife's edge. Pleasant though the outcome may have been, the kind of control over Erik's mind and body Charles has demonstrated is not something Erik takes lightly. If anyone else attempted it, they would be dead by now.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Charles tilts back in his chair and tucks his wrists behind his head. There's mischief in his smile.

Erik's answering grin is tight and sharp. "What would you call it then?"

Charles shrugs, smug. "I thought it was quite a lot of fun."

Of course, Erik thinks. Of course Charles is flip. He always floats along the surface where Erik plunges to depths. But in this case his glibness only fuels Erik's ire.

With a flick of his open palm, Charles's chair shoots away from the desk, jarring Charles out of his comfortable pose. Erik slinks off the desk corner and moves around to lean along its edge. In front of him, Charles looks up, astonished.

"It's not _fun_ to be a puppet, Charles." He keeps his fingers spread, feeling the reverberation from the chair's metal wheels. The room throbs with useful energy around him. "I am not a plaything. No one gets to use me. Not even you."

 _Especially not you,_ he adds, though he's not sure whether Charles hears. Erik has never laid his trust in anyone the way he has in Charles, and that in itself is dangerous. Trust is far too easily betrayed, and Erik will never be at anyone's mercy again.

The desk's drawer pulls are rattling.

Charles's eyes are dark, their color swallowed by wide black pupils. Erik's power— his mutation—and its violence have made men shake with dread, but Charles sits calmly, gaze fixed on Erik. And there's something else in his expression. Something other than the fear Erik is accustomed to.

"What?" he demands at the same time as understanding breaks over him, sweeping away some his anger.

Charles isn't afraid. He's aroused.

"I don't have control over you, Erik. I don't want it," he says, placid, making no attempt to move.

Erik narrows his eyes and extends his hand to sense the magnetic resonances coming from Charles's body.

_I don't want you impotent. What I want—what I always want—is you._

Charles's vest has metal buttons. The clasp and zip of his trousers are metal. As is his belt buckle. Erik makes a fist and hauls Charles to his feet.

There is scant space between them. Erik dips his neck, their cheeks and mouths hovering close, taunting without touching. He transfers his concentration on the metal fasteners of Charles's clothing from one hand to the other then skates his free hand between their bodies, cupping the front of Charles's trousers. Warm, hard length fills his palm and Charles wavers where he stands.

"This is how you want me? This is what I make you feel?" Erik asks. Charles gasps and nods, helpless under Erik's hands. A low simmer of warmth spreads through Erik, a new and different kind of power. Erik smiles, "Good."

With a tilt of his hand, the typewriter, telephone, Tiffany lamp and a fountain pen levitate off the desk and float to the floor. He pushes off the papers the old fashioned way and Charles gives him an arch look of surprise. Erik grins back at him, toothy and lewd. With a swift spin, he pins Charles against the desk, plunging into a kiss.

Charles gives way to him, pliant but eager.

Erik uses only his power to loosen Charles's belt and pull it out from around his waist, loop by loop. He smoothes his hands up Charles's side, raising Charles's arms above his head and the belt follows, like a snake dangling in the air. It wraps nicely around Charles's wrists and, at Erik's mental command, stays suspended there, stretching Charles to his fullest.

Lank and alert, Charles is on edge for Erik's every move. Erik kisses him again. He undoes the rest of Charles's pants, removing them in one motion as he slides his hands over the perfect round of Charles's ass and down the backs of his thighs. Then he grips and lifts, planting Charles on the gleaming wood of the desk.

Charles looks less the part of professor now than naughty schoolboy, on the desk in his shirtsleeves and rumpled vest, cock thick and waiting. He also looks exceptionally turned on.

Erik takes hold of that warm, stiff cock and pulls, not so gently, as he mouths at Charles's throat. Charles's bound hands fall around Erik's neck as he moans and pleads for more. And, God, if Erik doesn't want to give it to him.

Erik goes to his knees and Charles's hands catch loosely in his hair, sending a thrill down Erik's spine. He pulls a trouser cuff off one ankle and pushes between Charles's thighs, spreading him along the desk's edge and taking him with his mouth.

Charles's fingers clutch hard in his hair to a constant stream of _Erik Erik Erik._ But for Erik there's nothing but Charles—salt and musk and smooth skin straining against his tongue. He sucks and strokes and savors as he feels Charles skim in and out of his mind. With one hand, Erik fumbles his own cock free and groans into Charles at his own touch.

 _Erik. God, Erik._ Charles swallows hard and finds his voice. "Erik, I want to come for you. Like this, Erik, make me. God, please, I'm close. Please."

Erik could. He wants to. But he doesn't.

He pulls off and sees shock shatter across Charles's face. Charles's hands clamber for him as Erik gets to his feet. "Ah, ah," he corrects, nuzzling at Charles's sweat-damp temple, nipping an earlobe. "This time is my way."

Charles nods, drawing Erik's mouth to his. "Anything," he whispers, sealing it with a kiss. _Anything._

In the space of a thought he has Charles bent forward over the desk, breathless and leaning on his elbows, his belt-wrapped wrists ensuring he stays just so.

 _Erik!_ Charles reels. It's just one word, but it conveys everything—desperate, dizzy, wanting.

One hand rested on the slope of Charles's bare hip, Erik presses in close, He quickly spit-slicks his longest finger, slipping it down the crease of Charles's ass. He could, he knows, just order Charles to open for him. But he doesn't. He makes it happen instead.

Erik drags and taps, drags and taps his finger over the knot of nerves, until Charles is writhing, pressing up and back, his body begging Erik to slip inside. They both gasp when Erik does, and Charles relaxes fast around his fingers.

Erik can’t wait any longer. He guides himself in rough and fast.

Charles’s voice catches in his throat. He pushes back but doesn’t say a word. In fact, there’s no onslaught of shared lust coursing through Erik, no rambled words from Charles’s loose tongue. Except for their heavy breaths it’s silent in the room and in Erik’s head. Charles is holding back. And Erik hates it.

He growls as he gathers concentration and braces himself. He raises a hand and Charles is yanked upright by his bound wrists, torso wrenching at his shoulder sockets. This time he cries out and Erik presses a smile to the side of Charles’s neck, rolling his hips in a slow fuck so good he has to close his eyes. He tips his controlling hand to arch Charles’s body into a position that gives him the most pleasure, then fits his fist around the underside of Charles’s cock.

A nudge of his hips, jack of his wrist, and that does it—Charles crashes through his consciousness, filling up his mind and giving himself over wholly. “Erik, yes.” _Yes, there. Bloody hell,_ yes, _Erik._

Erik holds his hand steady and fucks the spot that Charles is begging for. "Now come for me,” he demands through clenched teeth.

And Charles does. He comes hard through Erik’s hand, hot mess spreading down Erik’s wrist and onto his own clothes. He comes, body stretched taut in the air, contracting tight around Erik, legs quaking.

He comes, and Erik follows.

Erik’s quick to let Charles fall. They collapse against the desk, sticky with sweat and propped up on elbows. The belt around Charles’s hands slackens with a clank of the buckle to the wood, falling slack.

Erik meets Charles’s eye for all of a second before they both burst into giddy, exhausted laughter.

  
****

— end — 

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://sublunarymagic.dreamwidth.org/profile)[ **sublunarymagic**](http://sublunarymagic.dreamwidth.org/) made a fanmix for this fic! It's all sexy electronica and awesome: [We Are a Fever minimix](http://cymbalism219.livejournal.com/116016.html#cutid1)


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